Lies That Bind
by karmacalamity
Summary: what happens when Quirrel tries to rebel against Voldemort's taking over of his soul? Nothing sparkly and rainbow-inducing, that's for sure. Inspired by AVPM. Rated A for Awesome.
1. In Which the Dark Lord is In My Suitcase

Oh, the first day of school, Quirrel thought stoically, lugging his heavy trunk over the cracked marble steps that signaled his entry into Hogwarts. More specifically, the Hogwarts bathroom---it was his first time on the job and he wanted to make a good impression, and he had this funny feeling like his hair was sticking up in the front again. He'd always been the kid in school to get over 100 percents on tests you couldn't get extra credit on, greet all the teachers with a toothy, suckup-esque grin, and wear suspenders with his pants yanked up to his shoulders. Okay, so he maybe wasn't that bad, but he still clung to some of his elementary school grandeur---glasses and hair that wouldn't lie flat. Quirrel took a deep breath and gave the stone lion at the door a superior glance. It stared him down. He cowered and crossed his arms awkwardly, hoping the lion couldn't detect his low self esteem.

Okay, Quirrel, he challenged himself, swinging open the bathroom door with confidence. Challenge one: hair. Challenge two: people. Eeeew, people. Quirrel wasn't sure when he'd seen one last. Sometimes they'd knock on the door to his apartment, but usually he ninja-dove to the floor, flicked all the lights off, and prayed they'd go away so he didn't have to open the door in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas.

Quirrel sunk against one wall of the bathroom, the cold from the blue-and-white tile walls seeping through his clothes and into his skin. He'd picked out his most mundane tie today, black, with a white shirt that was almost ironed. His hair was definitely not flat, though: he could see it from where he was crumpled against the wall, sticking up like a duck's butt. Reaching over to his suitcase, he unzipped it and felt around for a comb.

_Whoosh. _The high-vaulted ceiling of the bathroom rattled, and the lights flickered ominously. The already chilly bathroom went suddenly very cold, like being plunged unexpectedly into a bucket of Arctic seawater. Quirrel, frightened, scrabbled up into the corner. His shaking hands grasped the corner of something in his suitcase---he pulled it out---it was a 900-page volume of _War and Peace._ Hmmm. He held it up threateningly, bracing himself up against the wall.

"Don't come near me," he said haltingly, praying his voice wouldn't crack. It did. Good one, irony gods. "I've got…a book." Hmmm. Very useful against air.

_That's exactly right. No knowledge can protect you now. _

For a moment, all was silent, and Quirrel's breathing hitched. Had he imagined that, that whisper echoing hollowly throughout his mind? Time seemed to mock him, alone in the bathroom, silent and scared.

_Slam. _His thoughts broke into a scattered frenzy of wild runaway imaginings as his whole body was slammed up against a wall, jarring some of the tiles loose and sending them crackling to the floor. _War and Peace _dangled uselessly (as usual) from his hand. Flailing out with the other arm, he tried to fend off his attacker, but it was useless. There was nobody there.

_Feeling alone, are we? _Yep, it was definitely coming from inside his head. It was a breathy, high voice, but not without dignity. Quirrel liked to think that the voice inside his head, the one that sounded out words when he read, was affected and British, or at least Morgan Freeman-y, so this breathy womanly voice was starting to unnerve him. Quirrel's head twitched; a drop of cold sweat slid down his cheekbone. Frightened, pulse quickened, he slid shakily up, climbing hand-by-hand up a porcelain sink. Bracing himself on the sink's rim, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Brown eyes stared back at him, a cut dripped above his eyebrow from where a broken edge of tile had sliced his forehead. He looked down, breathed once or twice.

"I'm okay," he said slowly.

_Yeah, that's all I'd give you on a scale from one to ten too. With a decent haircut you could almost look like me. _

Quirrel looked up in shock---only to see his own face, bone-white and with a bluish tinge, staring back at him. But wait----was it? There----superimposed, ghostly, over his own face—dark sockets, aquiline nose, a grin that was slowly starting to pull the corners of his own mouth up. Quirrel giggled weakly, hands still clutching the sides of the sink basin, knuckles white and knobbly, like the bones of a fish. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth----the hand that went to wipe it away was not his own. But that was okay, wasn't it? He was so tired, too tired to do it himself.

Shaking his head violently, Quirrel backed away from the sink.

"No. No, I'm going crazy. It must have been all that Albanian liquor…" If any more blood drained from his face, Quirrel thought he could be eligible to be a vampire. _Albania. _Wasn't that where…couldn't that have been…what if he was…

_Lord Voldemort's personal body and soul? _The amused voice spoke again. _Someone give the kid a gold star. _

Silence. Silence. Silence. Then, out of all the shock and despair and horror, Quirrel posed a question of utter intelligence.

"Did you possess my _suitcase_?"

Silence, again. For the first time, Voldemort seemed flustered, or at least sheepish.

_Well…I had no choice. Nice boxers, by the way. _

Quirrel ran his hands----Voldemort's hands----through his hair, leaning his head against the wall in shock. His sweaty hair fell into his eyes.

"Oh my God. Voldemort is my suitcase. Oh my God, I'm going to die." Quirrel was aware that he was babbling, but aware as if from a very far away place, somewhere safe and comfortable and warm. He could hear himself getting quieter, like he was under ten feet of water and listening to a conversation at the surface of the waves.

_Well, actually, _Voldemort said mildly, _I am you now. Sort of. Actually, I'm more like the constant parasite on the back of your soul that you must obey, or else die. But that's a lot better than dying wham-bang right here, isn't it? _

Quirrel's breathing was getting increasingly faster, the hands through his hair faster and more agitated. Suddenly, though, he stopped---his hands brushed something gently at the back of his head. Tentatively, carefully, he stroked the back of his head again.

A face. Definitely a face. Oh my God, he thought hysterically, I can eat dessert at the same time as dinner now.

_Well, you can't blame me, _Voldemort said drolly. _I didn't want to have to stare at _you _everyday too. _

"Get off of my head! Get out of my mind-----get out of my….my…." Quirrel's train of thought slipped---his head slumped forward onto his chest. He left off clawing the back of his head, agonized words slipping into nothingness. The pages in _War and Peace _gave a feeble flicker, and he was gone. Voldemort sighed, the weak evil in him melting away, for the moment, with the last of his strength.

_I'll negotiate your terms when you wake up, you poor idiot._ Seeing Quirrel slumped on the ground, cold and shivering and pathetic, was like watching kittens be kicked.Voldemort mentally shook his head. _Don't you become a big softie, Voldemort. You're the Dark Lord, you're not a babysitter. _


	2. In Which Voldemort Bitch Slaps my Soul

_In Which The Dark Lord Bitch-Slaps my Soul_

_Wake up, sleepy head, it's time to lie._

Quirrel groaned, putting his hand to his forehead. He was burning up, feverish. That must be why he was here, wasn't it? Why he was in the Infirmary? Moving stiff arms and legs, he sat slowly up, blinking in the soft early-afternoon sun gleaming from the windows. He was alone, at least for now----a red-headed girl was asleep in the bed next to him.

He'd been having the strangest dream. He'd come to work-----and then----and then the Dark Lord himself had glued himself to the back of his head. Him----Quirrel, the lonely man with nothing to his name but a suitcase, some books, and a bag of Chex Mix. Bemused, he shook his head, and an unearthly giggle escaped him, unexpected and choking and overwhelming in the feeling of calm insanity that it brought. He clasped his hand over his mouth, unnerved.

_Yeah, that's my conniving evil laugh, _Voldemort said apologetically. _You're going to have to get used to it. _

Shocked at the voice, Quirrel slammed his head against the bedpost, wincing in pain. When he gingerly put his hand to the back of his head, he found it bandaged but sticky with blood. But no face, he found with relief. Voldemort smirked as much as the voice inside your head can smirk.

_You were muttering and twitching in your sleep, and kept banging your head on the post like you were trying to scrape my face off. I worked it out, though. I thought you would like it. _

"What, that you're not on the back of my head anymore?"

_Take it as a housewarming present. _

"Does that…" Quirrel sounded hopeful, a happy emotion he was probably going to have to quench from his diet if Voldemort was going to have his way. "Does that mean you're more…gone? From me?"

_Of course it does. I'm gone. You're one-hundred-percent Dark Lord free. Hearing ominous evil voices plotting to take over the world is just a side effect from Activia. _Quirrel could almost taste the sarcasm dripping down Voldemort's words. _Of course not, you silly boy. I'm still here, biding my time, quietly within you. You have to admit you like it better. _

"Oh, yeah. Loads better." Quirrel sat up, sighing. "Definitely a better picture, having you sucking down my soul, biding your time and festering inside my chest….like a moldy grapefruit or something."

_I am not a grapefruit!_ Voldemort said indignantly. _I am not a fruit at all._

Quirrel giggled weakly in spite of himself.

_Something more dignified…like…tangy apple crisp. Dammit, that's a fruit…granted, with more delicious brown sugar and tasty crumb crust. _Quirrel giggled more. _Stoppit! Why are you laughing?! _Quirrel sobered up at once.

"Nothing, I just thought you'd be more…serious." Quirrel thought. "Maybe like celery."

_Celery, hmmmm? Yes, it is quite evil, all those damn strings that get stuck in your…wait a minute…are you mocking me, Quirrel? _Voldemort's voice got ominously silky and quiet.

"No, not at all, my dear Dark Lord---"

_CRUCIO!_

A strangled, gargled scream wormed its way out of Quirrel's mouth, and he fell to the floor, tangled in bedsheets and forced to his hands and knees. Through a fog of pain, he dimly registered someone falling to their knees to help support him----someone with brown curly hair who smelled like fresh flowers and the tang of medicine. Madame Pomfrey, the nurse.

Through vision fading darkly on all sides like an old photograph, Quirrel could make out another shadow, standing above Madame Pomfrey, crossing his arms disapprovingly. He heard someone moan, a weak, pathetic one, and realized it was himself.

"What happened?" the shape asked, and the woman shook her head worriedly.

"I don't know, he just collapsed. He's been muttering and shaking all night…I think the stress is too much for him, the poor dear, he hasn't even started the job yet."

"How do you know he's cut out for it?" The voice was low and greasy, blatant and demanding.

_Look what you've done, _Voldemort said disapprovingly. _Now I'm going to have to fix it. IMPER-_

"No, no more curses," Quirrel whimpered. He felt a strong rush of pain, and his head swum giddily.

_Did you just bitch-slap my _soul_? _Quirrel thought, and Voldemort sighed impatiently.

_Yes, and don't make me do it again. Now shut up and look intelligent. IMPERIO!_

Quirrel closed his eyes, aware they were still open, but at this point he didn't care. He could feel himself floating away from the scene at the Infirmary, hovering above his own troubled self much as Voldemort probably drifted, ghostly, above his head, looking for the weakest body he could find. Dreamily, he watched himself get up, right his glasses, straighten his tie, and produce a winning smile that Quirrel was sure he'd never seen before. He---Voldemort, or Quirrel, or someone---coughed and opened his mouth.

"Hello there, Snape. Madame, a pleasure as always," he said in a low purr, reaching to kiss Madame Pomfrey's hand. Quirrel, from his vantage point on the windowsill, gagged and hoped he never had to suck up like that again. Madame Pomfrey, however, giggled and turned a blotchy shade of scarlet, showing just how much Voldemort possessing your body can do for you. Great, Quirrel thought. Now I have a cougar on my tail. Quirrel looked over at Snape, greasy and dark as usual, and shuddered. Long black hair, black cloak with buttons----he was the epitome of foreshadowing and evil. Pair that with the grease in his hair glinting in the sun and the fact that his whole face shone a sickly yellow, and Quirrel was ready to throw up his rainbow sprinkly donut he'd eaten for breakfast. Quirrel wondered why evil always had to look so damn unattractive.

"Quirrel," Snape said, in a voice that would have given Quirrel goosebumps if he'd been particularly conscious. He'd met Snape only once, briefly, in an interview with Dumbledore and some other candidates for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. Snape had sat in a corner, arms crossed, muttering things occasionally but otherwise just looking like the Angel of Death. Not a particularly warm welcome, but Quirrel wasn't getting a lot of those lately anyway.

Snape coughed and continued, crossing his arms and walking around Quirrel, inspecting him closely as if Snape were a bat and Quirrel were a piece of fruit. Voldemort gave a bright cheeky smile, and began to talk.

"Sorry if you were worried. I've been plagued with terrible nightmares my whole life, and I faint often. Not something which should interfere with my teaching, don't you worry! I've a spell which should fix me right up. I think sleep was all I needed," Voldemort confided honestly, the Dark Lord with Quirrel's innocent face as a mask, and Quirrel almost found himself, sleepily, believing everything Voldemort said. The longer he stayed under the Imperius curse, the farther he slipped into whitewashed memories and dreams. It was kind of nice, actually.

…_Mona…_


	3. In Which Voldemort Mooches off My Cookie

_In Which the Dark Lord Disses my Girlfriend and Mooches off my Cookies_

He was alone at the beach at night, walking the fine line between sand and water. The moon washed everything out a pale bluish-white; tinging the sand with a coppery glint and making the choppy waves look as though they'd been dusted with broken crystal. He smiled dreamily, peacefully, looking out over the sea: his heart was light for the first time in a while, and his hand was heavy with someone elses'. Quirrel opened his mouth to speak, but she smiled and touched one finger to her lips, then the same finger to his.

_I miss you, _he said silently, signing it with his empty hand. Her eyes sparkled, darker and lovelier than any he'd seen, warm and open like no black eyes he'd seen before. She put one hand to his heart, confidently. He stared at her face, trying to preserve it in his memory, to burn it on the back of his eyes.

_I will save you one day. _

Suddenly, though, her skin twisted; her eyes turned pale and ice-blue, her brown curls silvered and withered. Quirrel opened his mouth to scream, to capture that last fleeting glance of her, but it was too late. Voldemort stood before him, neatly and alone, slim and in a white suit and cane with his hands behind his back. Violently, Quirrel backed up, shaking his head, throwing himself into the sea and hoping the gaping blackness would swallow him up and take him away. His wish was granted---he slid sideways through his memories, shedding the dream as he went, gasping and sitting upright in his new office, from where he'd been lying on the cold stone floor.

"Stop," he choked brokenly, sobbing. His palms pressed against the floor, barely giving him any support. "Get out of my head. Find some other crony, or bitch, or whatever. What is it that you want with me, anyway?" Quirrel wiped away the tears leaking from his eyes, shakily standing and waiting for a reply. Voldemort seemed deep in thought before he let out a sigh.

_Well, I keep trying to tell you, but you keep fainting. You faint like a cat in a barrel of vodka. _

"Well, _gee_, maybe if the _Dark Lord_ hadn't _attached_ himself to my _soul,_ I'd be able to stay sane for a couple minutes!" Quirrel was faintly disturbed by the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, but it was one of his lesser problems at the moment. He pressed his fingers into his temples, sighing, and went to his suitcase to start unpacking and maybe look for some tea. Before he unzipped it, however, he glanced around.

"You don't have some cousin in here, do you? I mean, I don't have to exorcize my books, right?"

_That's ridiculous. _Voldemort sounded either very amused or very angry. _Cousins of mine would travel in better style. _

Quirrel found a box of tea and felt for the china mug of hot water sitting on top of his desk, complementary of Madame Pomfrey. He threw in a teabag and plunked himself into a chair, angry but suddenly very tired. Voldemort dwelled mildly inside his thoughts, sifting through his memories.

"Hey! Stop that!" Swatting the air around his head as if there were an irritating fly encircling him, Quirrel twitched and spasmed, trying to dislodge Voldemort and maybe even send him flying out his ears. Unfortunately, when the Dark Lord stuck to your soul, he used some pretty strong stuff, and that wasn't the way it worked.

_C'mon, kid. I have a right to do this now, I mean really. I just watched what looked like a bad Grey's Anatomy episode. _Amused, Voldemort coughed. _Who was that girl, anyway? _

"You mean Mona?" Distracted, Quirrel unpacked some of his books and used magic to send them flying across the wall, where they settled neatly on a high oak shelf. He twirled his wand in his hand, throwing it up in the air and catching it behind his back, then executing a number of other badass wizard moves. Voldemort mentally slapped him. Quirrel recoiled.

"She was…my girlfriend in high school. She's deaf, so…I told myself if I could get a job here, I'd either make enough money to try and fix that or learn some way of fixing it with magic. I mean, I always knew I was a wizard, but she didn't, and…well, yeah. That's the story," he finished lamely. Quirrel didn't know why he was telling Voldemort this, other than the fact that he was inside Quirrel's mind and would learn it somehow anyway, but he felt being chummy with the Dark Lord would probably be a good thing in the future.

_A stunning tale. You have the gift of words, kid. _

"Sarcasm is only the defense of the weak," Quirrel said automatically, then flinched. Voldemort's anger flared up, and Quirrel prepared himself.

_CRUCI-OCHOOOO. Sorry, that was simply a sneeze. _Voldemort composed himself. _Besides, I am not weak. I am merely…recuperating. _

"You're definitely weak," Quirrel said, surprised at his forwardness. "You're pretty much the ultimate definition of a mooch. Being as you're on the back of my soul and all that, and you don't even contribute to my rent."

_Careful, _Voldemort said menacingly. _I could hunt down that girl of yours. I could…I could…well, she's not really worth my wrath. _Voldemort sniffed. _She'd never measure up to what I could get back in the…are those cookies?_ Voldemort perked up. Quirrel was suddenly very hungry. He looked doubtfully down at the pack of Chips Ahoy cookies, slightly crumbly and battered from packing, and took them slowly out of the suitcase.

_Quirrel, I command you to eat those cookies. _

Quirrel stopped, giving the wall a withering look.

_C'mon, boy, we don't have all day. _Voldemort sounded impatient and not the least bit evil. Quirrel shrugged and opened up the cookies, taking one and putting it in his mouth. He'd been hungry anyway.

_Mmmm…the preservative-y crunch….the fake-chocolatey goodness…Yes, Quirrel, yes….om nom nom nom…._Quirrel stopped chewing, closing his eyes and feeling the happiest he'd felt in a long time. Voldemort was in ecstasy. Quirrel skeptically finished the cookies.

Sensing Quirrel's skepticism, Voldemort stopped giggling.

_As a Dark Lord, we never get to eat these things. _He sounded almost apologetic.

"That's no excuse to have a cookie orgasm in my brain," Quirrel muttered, throwing away the wrapper.

_You try not having a mouth for hundreds of years and see where you get. _Voldemort was snippy and standoffish all of a sudden.

"Nuuuuuurrrrrr," Quirrel groaned, a devastating comeback. Weakly, he slumped against the desk, banging his head on the flat surface. To make matters worse, his hot tea spilled across his shirt and all his work papers, causing him to jump up in pain and bang his head on the skeleton hanging over the door.

_Coordination is always something I like in a man, _Voldemort said, amused. _Go get yourself cleaned up so you can go kill Harry Potter. Wait, did I tell you that's what you're doing? Well, now it is. Being the Dark Lord is so much fun. _


End file.
